'appie 'allouine

Although Halloween has been the highpoint of fall semester since I started college I tried not to set my expectations too high this year. This was surprisingly easy to do given how completely non-existent Halloween is in France. I saw a grand total of one pumpkin in a store window all season, and while grocery stores are already beginning to stock Christmas chocolates and champagnes, there are no funsize bars, fake blood capsules or face paints to be found. With that said, my Halloween weekend ended up being pretty awesome.

Thursday was spent in the company of Aaron French: an aptly-named French student from my undergrad who is currently on break from his university in Bordeaux and needed a floor to crash on for a night. We went out for the buy-a-beer-get-free-couscous deal up at Chateau Rouge, reminisced about St. Mary’s even as we rolled our eyes at its failed presidential search and discussed when I’m going to try and make it down to Bordeaux (answer: right before Christmas). The next night Phinn and I donned our orange and black and joined a few other girls from the program to go out dancing. When you go out in Paris you have two return plans: 1) catch the last metro back at 1:45, or 2) stay out until after 5:30, when the morning metros start to run again. Tired from the night before, I left the others out and opted for the early return, which had me well-rested and ready for the ZOMBIE WALK on Saturday.

As a huge zombie movie buff, Lindsay had been prepping me for the walk ever since our afternoon of thrifting a few weeks earlier. When I arrived at the Marais around 2:30 (I followed a zombie horse from the metro to the meeting place) she was next in-line for make-up and pulled me in behind her. The make-up we got was impressively professional—a waxy facial scar putty covered with liberal quantities of sticky fake blood. Add a little dirt and teased hair and we really looked like we were out for BRAIINNNSSS. The more dedicated zombies came prepared in their own make-up and costumes, many with pieces of flesh or broken glass hanging from their faces or the edges of bones protruding through holes in their clothing. There were counter-culture, Hot Topic-esque zombies with Mohawks and piercings, zombie nuns, zombie brides, zombie babies, escaped insane asylum zombies, and zombies taking after a number of specific movies that went way over my uneducated head. There was also a class of non-zombies marked with yellow arm ties, called victims, who were dressed as members of various military branches and armed with fake guns.

The thirty or so victims assembled around 4pm and were given about a minute's head start before hundreds of zombies were dispatched after them, groaning, growling and limping in true zombie fashion. The participants took their roles very seriously, slowing their reaction times and only grunting responses to questioning observers.When we passed photographers on scaffolding the zombie crowd rushed their perch, arms outstretched and moaning for brains. When we passed cafes, we smashed hungry faces and slapped hands against the window panes, trying to get at the customers inside. This scared a few small children (and angered one ill-tempered shop keeper) but for the most part the reception of the public was great. Tourists and Parisians alike lined the parade route for pictures and offered up their children to appease us, while spectators of all ages leaned out of apartment windows to gawk at the freak show below. The victims, meanwhile, climbed (and were subsequently pulled down from) trees, barricaded themselves in phone booths, and fell screaming and firing beneath a dog-pile of zombies again and again.

I made the decision to keep my zombie make-up on for Laura's Halloween move night, and I discovered that roaming Paris with visible head wounds is a truly interesting experiment in social psychology. Separated from the context of my fellow zombies and in a city that knows little of Halloween, I was the target of countless stares and whispers in the metro tunnels of Chatelet. The effect was enhanced by the fact that I was wearing jeans, a peacoat and a scarf--in short, I looked like a typical Parisian until you looked me in the eye. In the actual car, I found the face paint acted as an icebreaker, allowing me to have French conversations with travelers usually too immersed in their bubble to interact with fellow passengers. I also scared quite a few people--a young girl in the movie store burst into tears, a woman in Montmartre gasped and grabbed my shoulder, readying her cell phone to call an ambulance, and a man who bumped into me in the metro car and turned to apologized jumped half the length of the train in shock.

I spent the evening with a few of Laura's friends, watching The Exorcist for the first time (terrifying--I can't get the stair crawl scene out of my head) followed by the mood-boosting Rocky Horror Picture Show (which, albeit not a full blown RH party, continues my annual tradition). The eerie fog that had settled into the streets by the time I made my way home at 2am provided a perfect ending to my Halloween weekend.

Attack of the mutant ladybugs

The heat in my room doesn't turn off.

I'm not complaining, mind. I can turn it down, at least, and having too much heat is preferable to having none at all (which is a problem I have heard Phinn and other residents complaining about). After all, I'm not paying for my heating bill so although I know I'm contributing to energy waste and global warming every time I open my window at least I can be happy that I'm not wasting my own money.

Except that leaving my window open lately has left me vulnerable to a sudden attack of ladybugs. I'm not sure why, but they're thronging to my room in force. Being fairly superstitious I refuse to kill these good-luck charms, which means that I find myself "freeing" them at odd hours of the night (6 yesterday, three so far today). Handling them has provided the opportunity to examine them up-close and personal, and I noticed something weird: they're backwards! Instead of red with black spots, these are black with rust-colored spots--"coccinelle" in negative. Weird, right?

And then I woke up this morning with a few mysterious bug bites on my arm and a lone ladybug crawling up the wall nearby. The only logical explanation: these aren't just lady bugs, they're a monstrous, man-eating, mutant subspecies.

And yet, I'm still to chicken to squash them.

Burning off the nutella and camembert

I never realized how much I grew to love going to the ARC (St. Mary’s gym) last year until I had it taken away from me. Throwing on some sweats, grabbing my iPod and claiming an elliptical for 40 minutes was a great way to burn through SMP and break-up stress as well as calories. A psychologist once told me that exercise for half an hour three times a week is the body’s chemical equivalent to an anti-depressant, and I believe it—I definitely feel fitter, happier and more productive (thanks, Radiohead) for a period of several hours after I work out.

Unfortunately France doesn’t seem to believe in gyms, or at least not the American version. The university equivalents consist of empty rooms for a weird variety of highly sought-after “physical” activities from fencing and body building to clown training and massage (?!?). Sadly, no cardio machines are available and even things like aerobics or yoga classes are hard to come by. I also tried, with little success, to find a private gym I could join. The ones that do exist fall into one of two categories: 1) super-intense-hardcore gyms, whose websites are bursting with headache-inducing flashing images and popouts of Arnold-looking men and which charge an exorbitant amount in annual fees, and 2) women’s “gyms”, which, judging by the pictures, have a few yoga mats and a stretching station to compliment their sauna and a massage table—so more like day spas, really. Curves is starting to exist here, but I think I’m a little too young for a mom gym like that. And so, begrudgingly, I am turning to the one form of cardio left: jogging.

Considering how embarrassingly red I get when I work out and how tricky it can be balance the whole asthmatic thing in an uncontrolled, outdoor environment, jogging takes a certain amount of both physical and moral stamina. I’m not sure if that stamina will endure when the weather turns chillier again, but having an inspiring track helps a lot. Luckily for me I live right across the street from Parc Montsouris, which offers hilly terrain, a pond (with geese!), sculptures and even spigots for a mid-jog drink. At the moment it’s also sporting some pretty fall foliage and that deliciously earthy smell of rotting leaves that makes me want to carve a pumpkin and make spiced cider. It takes me a little less than ten minutes to do a full lap of running down hill and run/walking back up hill, and despite the exhaustion it’s fairly enjoyable.

Paris is dotted with parks. In general, the French envision parks as a series of carefully planned pathways that intersect meticulously manicured collections of flowers, rows of aligned, identically pruned trees and triangles of perfect, off-limits grass (I’m serious…there are bars and signs to remind you that the pelouse is permanently en repose). The nicer ones may also have fountain or two. The result is a space that offers a nice respite from urban architecture for a lunch break, a dog walk or the odd cultural event, such as Sunday music in the park (or the Nuit Blanche installations I described earlier). The people you meet in these parks are, like the parks themselves, stylish, well-groomed, reserved. Being in a residential district, my park is a little more casual, and I love it for that. Along the path I pass playground equipment crawling with children, a woman taking a beaming, elderly grandmother out for a walk her wheelchair, a man giving free fall pony rides to preschoolers, a family feeding geese. Near the back there’s a cute café rumored to have great crepes that is usually populated by a retired crowd. There are also, much to my surprise, many other joggers (the last time I was in France, it was only the ‘undignified’ Americans that went out jogging…I’m not sure if it just took a while to catch on here or if that was more of a reflection of Nice culture). Many of them are other Cité students, but some are Parisians. The Parisians are easy to spot because they jog in style—if they’re just off work they’re still sporting their peacoats and scarves, and if not, they have very official-looking athletic spandex. Even if I’m not dressed quite as nicely, I’m happy to be part of their club, and I enjoy the flicker of recognition or the head nod when we pass. I have this new fantasy that I’ll meet my soulmate jogging—because really, if someone could find me attractive red and smelly than they are probably meant for me. Or just really desperate. Hm, better rethink that theory.

I'm too young to start having senior moments

I lost track of time today while making lunch and ended up leaving a little later than I usually do for my medieval lit class. By the time I got to the metro station I had about 7 minutes left to make the usually 20-minute walk. I ran, giving myself a pretty bad blister on my heel from the newish flats I was wearing (I swear, anything but athletic shoes make my feet bleed in half an hour tops…all this time I thought I was just resisting fashion because I was lazy and feminist, but maybe it’s because they do serious damage!)

When I arrived at my classroom door almost ten minutes late, I paused to listen for the teacher’s voice. I didn’t hear anything. Oh no! I panicked; today must be an in-class writing day, and I’ve already missed a third of it! Preparing an apology in French, I opened the door to—

An empty room.

Because, oh yeah, it’s Toussaint (French fall break). Clearly after four weeks of classes you need a whole week off—it’s the French way. Most of my classes are through NYU and aren’t affected, but I forgot about about this one, meaning that I inflicted pain and an hour and a half round trip on myself…for nothing. Well, okay, for a smoothie from the chic hippie fruit bar, because I have found that the best way to make a bad day good is to buy myself a treat.

In order to further validate my presence and to take advantage of the nice day, I decided to snap a few pics of the "campus." Being in the 13^th, Paris VII (all the Parisian universities are numbered) is far removed from the Haussmannian world of six story, iron-balconied apartments that you picture when you think of Paris. There are a lot of modern high-rises and big companies, and the wide sidewalks and streets give the area a more “American” feel. The university itself is fairly institutional, as all Parisian public unis are, but in general it’s a much nicer facility than I was expecting after my experiences at the rundown, grafittied, toilet-paper deficient Fac in Nice. It also has much nicer public spaces: one with benches, trees and a sidewalk typically dominated by skateboarders (who you can hear throughout our class...) and a separate park area, spanned by a foot bridge. Here are pics of both, as well as a tough local scooter gang.

A laugh for lundi

Humorous moment of my day:

My file of notes that I'm making to keep track of books and literary movements, etc. during this year (it's probably going to be a book in and of itself by the time I'm done) is titled "French literature journal." When I try to open it from recent documents, the title reads "French lite..."

Oh irony.

That's about it for the day. In case voyeurism is more your style than word nerd humor, here is a photo of a French streetwalker whose fashion merited capturing on film (note the small dog, which completes the ensemble). Unfortunately I'm a chicken of a Papparazzi, so in my attempted stealth it came out a little blurry.

Catch up

I’m starting to slip into the same guilt trip I fell victim to in Tunisia, namely that every time I sit down to write an entry I feel guilty “wasting” time that could otherwise be invested in working. However, what that usually means is that I just poke around on the Internet, or fall asleep reading, or do something generally less productive than blogging. Whoops. Here’s a “catch up” post to make up for my absence as of late.

Last week I was visited by Andrea (from my study abroad in Nice) and her boyfriend, Brett, who wisely decided to avoid the recession and looming adulthood in the states by bumming around Europe for a few months. They were only to be in Paris for a day or do, but we found the time to go out for a delicious Greek dinner in the Latin quarter that came with free kir apperatifs, live music and rather less desirable free dancing lessons. We had planned to spend the next day playing tourist, but unfortunately our time ended up being consumed by a quest for antibiotics for Andrea’s UTI. We started out trying to use places that would be reimbursed by her American insurance, but after being turned down by a medical center and put off by the prices of the ER and the difficulty of communicating with the US company she decided to bite the bullet and just pay out of pocket for a French doctor. After a few calls I was able to track down a doctor that took walk-ins for 22 euro a session. The doctor didn’t have the equipment for an in-office pee test, so she tried to convince Andrea to go across the city to give a sample before beginning to take antibiotics. When Andrea explained that she was leaving the next day for a bus back to Germany followed by a flight home and didn’t have time for the 24hr test, the doctor recommended that she save a cup of pee un-tainted by antibiotics to submit for testing upon her return to the US. This got us joking about the potential difficulties of trying to get a 3 oz sample of infected pee through customs in a zip lock baggie, and also made me question the sanity of the doctor. At any rate, we got the prescription (20 euros) without too much more difficulty or expense. Huzzah, another victory for socialized healthcare.

I also went to a party last Friday at Pascal’s apartment. The party was a combined birthday/goodbye affair, as Pascal will be leaving in a few weeks for an internship in Romania. That’s him lying across everyone’s legs in the photo. Good food, chill people, and most importantly, a lot of good French conversation practice. I met a Tunisienne that I hope to meet up with again to practice some Arabic—the amount I’ve forgotten is appalling.

On the academic front: I'm being challenged by the in-class writing assignments in my medieval lit class. On the first one I sacrificed grammar for content, and on the second I made a real effort to get good grammar only to not quite finish in the time limit. I spoke with the prof after class who assured me that she’s just grading me as hard as my French peers and that I shouldn’t worry, which made me feel a little better. I’ve had two more big exposés and one paper in the last week. One of the exposées was the highlight of my time here—a chance for me to combine knowledge from the medieval program in Oxford, time at St. Mary’s and new research to present on feudalism, courtly love, and chivalry and how they all affect Chretien de Troyes’ “Yvain.” It was great practice in speaking and confidence, and for one of the first times in my life I thought to myself: “yeah, maybe I *could* be a professor.”

Except that would mean I need to start reapplying to PhD programs. Le sigh.

Fondue Friday

Yesterday was a perfect Parisian day and delightfully sunnier and warmer than it has been—about 65 degrees. My weekends start on Friday, so I took advantage of a grasse matinee (“fat morning”—or, sleeping-in) before heading to the NYU center to take advantage of for a free graduate lunch—a catered couscous affair with all the appropriate accoutrements (harissa, veggies and broth, lamb, meatballs, chicken, chickpeas, sweet dried raisins). Dessert was my first ever taste of the famous macaron cookies. Verdict: good, but 99% sugar; I’ll stick to my tarts and pastries. It was a fun chance to see a few of the students from other tracks that I rarely see, as well as an opportunity to talk a bit with our women-powered administrative team about how things are going and possible graduate excursions to use up our limited budget. We decided on a performance of a Beckett play (absurd theatre…yes!) in November.

Lindsay and I followed lunch with an impromptu tour of the Marais, a cute little area known for its gay and Jewish populations, and, apparently, “fripperies” (thrift shops). Thrifting here is more like thrifting in the UK than in the US meaning that stores tend to carry nicer, “vintage” items of a higher quality and price than what you’d find at a salvation army. I didn’t end up buying anything (almost got a tan newsies hat until a rude salesman put me off) but I had a lot of fun trying stuff on and mingling with Paris hipsters rooting through bins and racks in search of their next great find. My favorite of the day was this 59 euro ridiculous/fabulous pink dress that I love to death and would totally wear to prom if I had to do high school over again (God forbid). I couldn’t decide if it made me more like Marla from Fight Club or just like one of those Barbie cakes that were all the rage in the early 90s, but I loved it either way.

I met up with Phinn in Montparnasse afterwards to search for an authentic Breton crêperie. Our mission ended in failure but we did get a good walking tour of the area, at least, (and I bought some gloves and a pair of black skinny jeans from Mango) before we became too hungry to delay dinner any longer. We treated ourselves to a nice fondue dinner on rue Mouffetard in the 5^th, enjoyed with a pitcher of house white and a delicious mousse-custard dessert over several hours à la française. The huge amount of melted cheese I consumed not only cancelled out all of the walking I did earlier in the day but also threatened my ability to wear my new skinny jeans. And you know what? Totally worth it.